Bad Day January 28th

When I awoke this morning at 630, I rolled off the couch and stumbled to the bathroom to take my contacts out. I climbed into bed after changing into my pyjamas and read the news on my phone. I laid there with stinging eyes, knowing I wouldn't fall back asleep and by 830 I was convinced that it would be a good idea to plug in the kettle and turn on the radio.
After getting back into bed with a cup of coffee and a new book, I realized it was snowing, which further lead to me feeling truly defeated in all of my unfruitful attempts at making health-related goals.
I opened the cover of Watership Down, studying the map of adventure in hopes of finding my place in it.
Now, having gotten through the first fourty pages or so, my coffee has gone cold but my eyes still sting. How I yearn for dried grass and the smell of morning in the middle of nowhere. The sound of a creek and a bear running through it. The colours of the various weeds and flowers, and an overripe raspberry the colour of which cannot be replicated artificially between my fingers. The shape of wild strawberry leaves, and a glimpse of someone's treehouse longsince abandoned.
Ginny and I would get aboard the raft that she and her father made, we were much much like Tom Sawyer & Huckleberry Finn, though I was much less skilled at it all than she was. If I recall correctly I lost my hat that one day, as I gurgled and struggled to get back onboard. I watched it slowly bounding along in the water, happily free like any hat would be if it's been caught by the summer wind.
I often think of Bob Windsor's cabin up in the valley. What a beautiful musty old shack, surrounded by tall grass and a field of wildflowers. If you weren't careful, you would step right into an stream, hiding under overgrown brush.
Oh, how I recall that honey-sweet smell in early August of dried grass, dust and honeysuckle. it would overtake all senses, and if my body didn't stop in recognition, my entire spirit did (and it still does at the mere thought of it).
I remember how we'd be covered in dirt, dust and clay most every day, but could easily dive into the river and wash ourselves off in the purest of water.
It's January in Vancouver. I can't say I ever remember feeling this troubled and quite truly depressed, but I'm sure I say that every year (like we all do about everything.) Why is this place such a source of darkness and sorrow? So many people relish in it, know how to get through it, indulge it. I am finding I understand this place less, that my every impulse is elsewhere, in other towns, on other roads, in other wildernesses.

I am finding that what I used to find a real drag now is extremely appealing. Like gathering firewood, for instance. I remembering being forced into going with my mom and stepdad to get some in Dean's old bright orange Ford pickup with the chainsaw and ax in the back. He had two decals of buck heads on the rear windows, and it just occurred to me that this vehicle would be something my friends would fan their brows over (nostalgia is a real thing). I remember driving through a dried-up river bed, and through a steep ditch in order to get firewood. I hadn't been so frightened in my life, but looking over at my mom laughing while Dean wrangled the gears and yelled, "Woohoo!" made me realize what I was experiencing. I remember us coming upon an abandoned shack, which I immediately deemed a witches house, where I saw a blown up latex glove and the big, glassless windows and my fear of looking inside. I'm sure when I got home that day I forgot about it all once while picking up a book or calling Lach to ask what he'd had for lunch that day.
I want more of this. Discovery and exploration where there is no one else to be found. Taking it all in without someone yelling at me to get out of the way, or being to distracted by the most ridiculous thoughts to really enjoy the things I love about life.
The city is a wonderful place at times, but at most it is a life-sucking pit of insincere pricks trampling over you for something better.